


Live By The Sword

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [1]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:39:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Arthur Castus, Officer Lancelot Benoit.  One last day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live By The Sword

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this originally as a piece for a challenge on my [KA fan forum on yahoo,](http://groups.yahoo.com/group/kingarthurfanfiction) answering the challenge: _given no choice, would two knights actually fight to the death?_ This is a new version of my original answer.
> 
>  
> 
> I want to offer special thanks to [](http://amari-z.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://amari-z.livejournal.com/)**amari_z** for her constant support and editing throughout this series. I appreciate everything you've done for me. Thank you so much.
> 
> Also special thanks to all of my friends who've read this series and enjoyed it. Your words have meant very much to me through this thing as well. I hope you enjoy reading this version as much as I did writing it.  
> Feedback is love.

  
_Who knows what tomorrow will bring, all we have is today_  
Maybe this is the calm before the storm  
Who can really say, who can really say

_I want to be with you at the end of the world_  
And breathe my last breath in your arms  
I want to be with you at the end of the world  
And burn across the sky like two shooting stars 

_There’s no place that I’d rather be_  
Than with you here today maybe this is the dark  
Before the dawn  
Who can really say, who can really say 

_Wherever you are you’re what I need  
Wherever you are that’s where I want to be_

_Chorus_

_With You, Billy Klippert_

__

 

__

 

__

 

_Too much, too soon._

That phrase had been used quite a lot by Arthur’s mother, near the end. “It’s too much, Artorius,” she’d whispered from her hospital bed, her skinny arm with the IV lodged into it gripping his hand. “Too much, too soon.”

At the time he hadn’t really known what she’d meant. He thought perhaps she was just tired of her long fight.

Now, with sweat dripping down his face from the weight and heat of his riot helmet, Excalibur raised to his cheek and his Kevlar armor weighing down his shoulders, his knees aching from crouching for hours, he thought he finally understood those words.

He thought about the train journey that morning, and could feel Lancelot’s hand in his.

_Too much, too soon._

He listened on his earpiece as the minute noises from the dirty, rat infested warehouse echoed through his brain, easily drowning out the pops and shouts from the riot he was supposedly there to monitor and help to bring to a halt. The riot that was like any other riot – it had police and firefighters out in force. He wasn’t exactly sure why Lance had picked this place to have his meeting; Beverly Hills was an overly crowded and dangerous neighborhood, especially with the constant activity and police action. Arthur swore silently and wondered for the hundredth time just why headquarters chose to place so much attention on this particular location.

Then he remembered that it was just that attention that allowed him to get away with dealing with this “personal” issue, so he stopped worrying about it.

The warehouse meeting was long over, but one person still remained in the building – and that was why Arthur was really there, watching, waiting to see what he’d do. Tristan and Dagonet waited in similar crouches staggered out behind him in a line, guns drawn, both having listened with him to the things spoken in the warehouse an hour ago. Each officer was fully armed and covered like Arthur was in Kevlar and fire-retardant pants. They were far enough apart to stop anyone trying to come through the area easily, but not so far that Arthur couldn’t see them.

A small noise came through Arthur’s radio, and he was instantly standing.

“Dagonet,” he said quietly.

The tall officer was next to him in a heartbeat, his Ruger held loosely in his large hand. “Captain.”

“I’m going to talk to him,” Arthur said, turning his eyes away from the door to the warehouse to look at his officer. He met Dagonet’s even gaze. “Stay here. You’ll know when I want you in.”

“Captain,” Dagonet repeated as Arthur looked away and holstered his gun. “Not that I don’t understand, but – ”

“Then cover me. Wait for my signal,” Arthur interrupted. Dag nodded, albeit reluctantly.

Waiting until the most recent screams and shots had subsided from the activity nearby, Arthur duck-walked over to the old building, flipping his visor up so he could quickly wipe the sweat from his eyes.

Peeking around the doorframe, he could see movement inside. Still just one person, as he had thought.

_Stop worrying about me. Please, Arthur. Stop worrying, and stop living for me._

“Christ,” he murmured to himself. He shut his eyes, wiped his face one more time, and stood, entering the warehouse, the figure in the shadows still muttering and pacing.

Arthur made a quiet sound and cleared his throat. “Lance.”

The other man jumped and turned. He grabbed at one of his holstered guns at the same time, dropping his hand when he realized who it was.

“Arthur. Christ, don’t do that,” he said. “I could have shot you.”

Arthur removed his helmet, setting it down on an empty table. He knocked a hand into his chest, smiling slightly. “Kevlar,” he said. “Remember the thing we usually do when we’re out here?”

One corner of Lancelot’s mouth pulled. “Beverly Hills is so unsurprising,” he answered. “Riots, riots everywhere. So boring. Can’t they come up with something else to drag us out here for?”

Arthur started to say something silly, then shut his mouth.

“Why are you here?” he asked quietly. “I know Cragen doesn’t have you on active status today.”

_Rumors are true. Meeting tomorrow at __

Lancelot’s half smile bloomed into a full one. He turned toward the other door in the warehouse, walking to it so he could see and hear what was going on outside. He cracked the door open, and tilted his head to see better.

“Becoming my father’s son,” he replied. Arthur sighed audibly and followed him.

“I don’t believe that,” he stated. “You broke with them a long time ago. You’re a totally different person now.” He knew better than to act surprised at Lance’s words, or to pretend he hadn’t heard some of what had been discussed earlier. He wouldn’t play the other man for a fool.

Lancelot rested his forehead on the brick of the building for a moment, and when he met Arthur’s eyes, he had a smear of dirt on his skin. “Idealist to the end. You know I’ve been seeing Gwen.”

Arthur nodded, frowning. “Yeah, I know. But you told me it was just for family’s sake. We both know how few people both of us have left.” Arthur spoke the words like he believed them. And somewhere he did. He just couldn’t – didn’t – have it in him at that moment to try and think the worst of Lance.

Laughing softly, the other man leaned back against the wall, his hands resting on the butts of his guns. Arthur noticed he was wearing regular clothing, but the leather thong of his badge carrier showed at the collar of his cream colored shirt. The shirt was actually too large, hence the ease with which Arthur could see the badge and holder. He had to swallow heavily when he realized it was one of his shirts. Why hadn’t he noticed that this morning?

“And you believed me? So how long have you been waiting outside? How long have you been listening?”

“You’re being deliberately cruel,” Arthur answered, his brows drawing together and his body beginning to tremble slightly. He walked closer to where Lance was leaning. “And you know I’ve been here for a while.” _Stop playing the idiot, Arthur. It’s past time, now._ He sighed again, and rubbed at his sweaty face. _How can I answer him truthfully without hurting him?_

_I don’t think I can._

“Then why are you acting as if you don’t know what I’m talking about? Or what I’ve been doing? Come on, Arthur, even if you hadn’t heard the rumors, you heard the conversation I had an hour ago. I’m doing what I was born to do.”

Staring at Arthur, Lancelot narrowed his eyes, the conversation he’d had with Guinevere coming to his mind unbidden.

_I need you to keep Arthur out of this. If you don’t, like I said, you know the consequences._

_Keep your nosy cop out of this. Jesus, Lance. Your obsession with him may get us both in trouble – and I’m not having that. One way or another._

Lancelot waited, waited for what seemed like lifetimes before Arthur finally responded.

“Then why in the bloody hell did you leave? If you thought you couldn’t get away?” Arthur knew he sounded pathetic, but he didn’t care. He wanted to shake some sense into Lancelot – but he knew that wouldn’t help. When the other man got like this, his melancholia could sometimes take a delicate touch to get rid of. Luckily for Arthur, he usually knew how to do that. He could fix things with the department. He didn’t think Lance had done anything really bad, yet. If he could nip this in the bud –

Something felt different this time, though. Arthur’s gut twisted. He had a flash of Lance in court, coked up, smiling ferally, out of his mind, not the man Arthur’d known forever.

He realized something – and he had to push down the feeling he was going to be sick.

_This isn’t going to end the way I want it, is it?_

“For you, Arthur. I did it for you, because I knew that’s what you wanted,” Lance replied. He smiled again, more sincerely this time. “I knew what you wanted for me – to be what you considered a ‘good’ person. And this,” he gestured to his hidden badge, “was the only way I knew how to do it. I couldn’t let you down again.”

Arthur was speechless. He blinked, then, and moved to sit on an overturned crate.

He rubbed at his mouth. _Surely_ this hadn’t all gone down because of him? Surely Lance hadn’t made the changes to his life merely for Arthur’s sake, playing him for a simpleton while he secretly did things for his family?

He shook his head. “No. No, no no. I don’t believe that. Not for a second. You’re not that calculating. Lancelot, come on. You don’t have to do this. I know what you’re really like, I know what that person inside you is. He’s generous and kind and loving and isn’t a murderer or a yes man. _You_ got away from Roland. _You_ made the decision to come to me in Malibu. Not me. I didn’t force you to do anything. _You_ went to the academy. _You_ got the special weapons permits. _You_ got the grades and the practice and you made me spar with you.”

Arthur knew he was babbling, but it was better than doing what he wanted, which was to curl into a ball and rock. He had known this confrontation wouldn’t be easy – but this was now bordering on brutal. God – _it wasn’t going to work._

It wasn’t going to work this time – his ability to change Lancelot’s mind, his sway over the younger man, despite their connection, despite their compassion and love for one another –

It wasn’t going to work.

Arthur’s lips moved unconsciously in a prayer his mother had taught him when he was a tiny boy. All he could think to do now was to offer whatever he had to God to get the help he needed to persuade Lancelot to be resonable.

_Give me my golden tongue. Let me fly him away from this._

_Let me succeed. I promised him I’d take care of him._

Watching Arthur as he sat murmuring to himself, Lancelot wanted to change his mind, wanted to drop his act and go to Arthur, take the other man in his arms, and get the hell out of California. He remembered his notion of leaving, he and Arthur going some other place, getting away from both of their pasts and being simple and happy and together.

Arthur’s radio crackled, a few gunshots sounded from outside, and Lance could hear the shouts of the riot police close by.

Guinevere would never leave them alone. His own guilt and memories would never leave him alone.

He twitched a small smile, and walked the few paces to where Arthur sat. Kneeling at the other man’s feet, he raised a hand and undid the buckles at the side of the Kevlar armor that protected Arthur’s chest.

Arthur looked at him, confusion in his green eyes. Lance didn’t say anything; when he finished getting the cumbersome thing undone, he slid it off Arthur so the other man just sat there in his fire retardant pants and thin sweat-wicking top. His badge hung from the leather cord at his neck, and Lancelot stared at it, the bright brass winking in the gloom.

_Don’t fucking back down._

He took a calming breath, and then rose up on his knees so he was almost level with Arthur as the other man stayed seated. Placing his hand over Arthur’s heart, he splayed his fingers out, and could faintly feel the distinct rhythm of the thud-fade-thud he’d come to think of as more important than anything else in the world.

When Arthur realized that Lancelot was just feeling his heartbeat, he couldn’t contain his emotions, couldn’t keep the control over his façade that normally never failed him. Work situations – he was the master. He was in control, in charge. Nothing could break through his wall of self-confidence when it came to his job.

When Lancelot was involved, however…this was work, but yet it wasn’t. Arthur was here ostensibly to do a job, but it was a job he had chosen to do, a job he had “assigned” himself because he knew no other cop could handle it right.

He hadn’t known it would be like _this._

His face twisted and crumpled, and he began to cry silently as Lance merely smiled at him and held his palm over Arthur’s heart.

In that moment Arthur knew it was finished. He had failed.

He wanted to beg, to scream, to tell the other man he was being a fucking fool and that there was something they could do, together, to fix things for Lance. They could leave LA, they could get away from the influence of the Benoits. Hell, Arthur could go to Gwen himself if that’s what it took.

Arthur wanted to die, right then and there. He had realized these things too late. It was too late for any of it. Lancelot had already given up, and when Lancelot got an idea, it was almost impossible for him to shift gears.

“Lancelot,” he choked out, his hand grabbing for the one that rested on his chest, “whatever is going through your mind, stop it. Nothing is black and white. There’s always a solution. This can be fixed, we can do something, we can leave! We can leave, today, tomorrow if you want. Please, let’s just – ”

Arthur’s voice had reached a hysterical pitch. He knew his two officers could hear him, but he didn’t care. Everyone already knew, had to know, about him and Lance. That didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that in his anguish he was saying things that both he and Lance knew were not in his nature. Nothing mattered except the man in front of him.

Lance shook his head. “Arthur. It’s done. It has to be this way. Don’t you get it? I can be proud of what I’ve done for the past couple of years, and hopefully most of the bad things,” he shuddered slightly, “will be forgotten in light of the good things. You’ll help with that, right?” His face took on a panicked expression, and he gripped harder at Arthur’s hand. “You’ll remind them of the good things I did, right?”

“No!” Arthur shouted. It took all of his will to remain seated. He jerked Lancelot’s hand back over his heart. “I won’t remind anyone of anything, Lancelot, because you’ll be there to do other good things. You’ll be there,” he sobbed, his body leaning forward so his forehead met Lance’s, “you’ll be there with me.”

That last part came out as a whisper. Arthur knew it was a lie – but he was beyond normal action at this point.

“How could you have _planned_ to leave me?”

Arthur closed his eyes, tears streaming so thickly that he couldn’t see anymore. All he could feel was his hand and Lance’s hand, twined together, the thumping of his own heartbeat the thing that joined them.

It always had been. The only thing.

Reaching up a slow hand, Lance brushed the wetness from Arthur’s cheeks. He wanted so desperately, more than anything he’d ever wanted, to chuck all this stupidity and leave. Just leave. With Arthur in tow, and their love intact.

“Arthur, my love,” he sighed softly, “if you don’t know the answer to that, you know nothing at all.”

He pressed his mouth to Arthur’s quickly, knowing if he prolonged it he would back down, and then he moved their twined hands, pressing his lips to Arthur’s chest, over the heartbeat that meant more than any moment of Lancelot’s life. He hesitated a moment, memorizing the feel of the bumping and the blood that – thank God – would still flow through Arthur’s veins.

_Go! Go, go go!_

He let go of Arthur’s hand, stuffed his own badge inside his – Arthur’s – shirt, and sprinted for the door opposite the one Arthur had come in through.

Arthur sat dumbfounded, watching him go for a prolonged moment, then leapt up after him, forgetting his body armor.

“Lancelot! Don’t – they’re out in force out there! Too many guns – wait!” He pelted after Lance, slamming through the door, jamming his shoulder in the process. He didn’t feel it.

There were three uniformed cops on the street, backs to the warehouse as they spoke, waiting for something to happen with the riot in progress. At the sound of Lancelot bursting out of the ancient building, they turned, surprise on their faces.

Arthur appeared almost immediately, shouting incomprehensible words, and the three cops all drew their guns, one of them screaming at Arthur to hit the deck. They could all see his badge plain as day, but Lance, in street clothes and looking somewhat troubled, was a stranger to them.

Lance drew his guns, his crossgrip the best it had ever been, and before he could even raise them more than a few inches, his chest exploded in a red haze, the armed police having seen him as a threat to them and to a fellow cop.

Arthur’s vision went spotty and he felt as if he were running through molasses as he saw Lancelot drop his guns and fold gently to the ground, his hands clutching at his chest.

“Stopstopstopstopstopstop!” he screeched to the uniforms as they raced toward him. “He’s a COP!” He screamed the last word to the sky.

Two of the uniforms tried to drag Arthur away from the “danger” as the third cop aimed his gun at Lance, hissing in surprise when Lance’s badge flopped out onto his blood soaked chest.

“Man down! We have an officer down!” the cop yelled into his radio. “Get a bus to Beverly and Third NOW! I repeat, officer down!”

Arthur thrashed against the arms holding him like a thing possessed, his booted feet digging furrows into the ground. “LetmegohesmypartnerIneedtogettohim,” he cried, using the word _partner_ in hopes that the uniforms that were with him would hear him.

They did, and Arthur stumbled to Lance where he lay on the ground, the soil around him rapidly becoming wet with his blood.

Something zinged past Arthur’s ear as he landed on his knees next to Lance, and he vaguely registered the sound of gunfire as the three cops that had shot Lancelot burst into action, trying to quell the riot they had been sent there to stop. The one that had called for the ambulance stopped at Arthur’s shoulder.

“Bus on the way, Captain,” he breathed heavily, then took off in the direction of the popping sounds.

Dagonet was suddenly at Arthur’s side, and Arthur could see Tristan out of the corner of his eye, speaking rapidly into his radio, asking where the bus was, _NOW._

“Captain,” Dagonet said calmly into Arthur’s ear, and Arthur felt something soft being pressed to his neck. “You got clipped,” he said at Arthur’s crazed look. “You’re bleeding – I think they missed the big vein, but you’ll bleed out just the same if you don’t hold still. Bus is on its way,” he confirmed Tristan’s nod. “Hold this to your neck. Don’t let go of it.”

Arthur grunted a noncommittal response; his wound didn’t matter, only Lancelot’s did – and Arthur almost vomited when he finally got a chance to look at it clearly.

He sat, one hand clamped to his neck, the other dragging Lance into his lap. The other man was pale, so, so pale, and in a strange fleeting moment of clarity Arthur saw Lance had some freckles across the bridge of his nose he’d never noticed before.

Lance’s chest was chewed up, the paleness of Arthur’s borrowed shirt screaming out at Arthur against the red of Lance’s blood. Arthur removed the cloth from his wound and tried to spread it over Lance’s gut, the small amount of fabric soaking up the flow of blood too quickly.

“Lance,” he whispered at first; the other man’s face was contorted into a rictus of pain and his mouth was working, though no sound was coming out. “Lancelot,” Arthur yelled desperately, using Lancelot’s full name as a way to get his attention, not realizing he’d been calling the other man that for the past half hour.

It worked. Lance opened his eyes, and though they were hazy and unfocused, he smiled at Arthur when he saw who was holding him. His eyebrows drew together as he kept examining Arthur’s face.  
“You’re bleeding,” he accused, his voice scratchy and weird, Arthur reminded of Lance’s time as a teen. “You’re bleeding, Arthur. What did you do?”

 _My neck._ “It’s nothing, Lancelot,” he answered quickly, “just a scrape. You need to be quiet – I don’t want you to hurt yourself any more than you already have.” He laughed crazily with his statement, as the cloth that had previously been on his wound was now completely soaked with Lance’s blood. “You’ll be fine,” he added. “Fine. Just, here. Hold your hand here,” he placed Lance’s hand over the cloth that covered his torn gut. “The bus is on its way.”

He could hear the sirens and felt Dagonet at his side again. “Arthur, _hold_ this on your wound,” Dagonet snapped, his patience worn thin. He placed another piece of cloth over Arthur’s neck. “You have to stay alive, Captain. He needs you.”

That did make sense. Arthur was beginning to feel slightly loopy, his ears ringing and his hands feeling tingly and numb. He heard the sirens coming closer.

“You never could lie for shit,” Lance said weakly, a small smile on his blood smeared face. “Stupid Arthur.”

“You’re the stupid one,” Arthur retorted, a frantic sounding giggle making its way out of him. “Stupid,” he repeated. “Stupid Lancelot, getting shot. You trying to make me mad?” He was really dizzy now. His neck itched, and when he scratched at it, his fingers came away covered in crimson. He blinked rapidly, which only made things worse.

“Arthur,” Lance was saying. “A’thur,” he slurred again. “Look at me.”

“Yes, sir,” Arthur said, a silly grin on his face. “What?”

He met Lancelot’s eyes, and for a moment, everything seemed to quiet and clear, as if it were just the two of them on the ground, their gazes locked and their minds and souls meshed.

“Arthur.”

He could hear Lance as clearly as if the other man were speaking right into his ear. He nodded, ignoring the vague pain in his neck and the sirens that were almost on top of them.

“You’re my saving grace. None of this is your fault. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I will love you forever,” Lance said quietly, his voice normal and his breathing evening out. His eyes seemed to glaze over. “I will wait for you.”

Arthur’s mouth worked; he had no words. He bent over and kissed Lancelot’s forehead, then brushed his lips gently against Lancelot’s, feather soft.

“You’re mine,” he replied at last, his eyes grabbing Lance’s and not letting go. “Mine. My soul, my heart. I love you.”

“I lo-” Lance started to speak, but he choked, and a well of bright red liquid rose up through his mouth and Arthur was sprayed with some of it.

Everything rushed _forward_ and suddenly he could feel the pain from his wound, could hear the EMT’s screaming at him to move as they swarmed around him, could hear Dagonet whispering to him to let the medics do their job.

He allowed Dag and a medic to lift him to his feet, the hand that had grasped at Lancelot’s slipping from the other man’s slowly. He watched numbly as the EMT’s loaded Lance onto a gurney, sliding an oxygen mask onto his face and beginning the CPR that Arthur knew was futile.

He shook his head dumbly, then realized –

“His badge!” he shouted, jerking away from the medic and Dagonet. “I need it!”

He stumbled to where the men were loading Lance into the ambulance, and pushed them aside so he was leaning over Lance one more time.

He pulled the badge over Lance’s head, holding the brass thing in his hands, the metal slick and hard to hold onto with the amount of blood that coated it.

Lance’s eyes moved to his, and Arthur saw him smile through the mask.

Then the EMT’s shouldered Arthur aside, and he sank to his knees as they finished getting the gurney carrying Lancelot into the ambulance. He only vaguely felt Dagonet come up to him and help him to his feet again. He allowed the tall officer to lead him to where another ambulance waited to look at his wound.

The badge in his hand felt as heavy as anything Arthur had ever lifted. His eyes were glued to it, his thumb brushing over it slowly, clearing the blood off its brass face.

He let the EMT care for his neck, not hearing whatever it was Dag and Tristan were trying to say to him.

_Your name is Arthur?_

_The dark haired boy laughed._

_Well, shit. I’m sure we were meant to be friends._

*

Arthur’s retirement a few months later was a huge affair; several of the commanders who attended had been friends of his father.

Arthur drifted through the city afterwards, his hands feeling empty and strange without Excalibur filling them, his body twitchy and uncomfortable, his clothing hanging loose on him.

At night, he would lie awake for a while before finally drifting to sleep, staring at the chest of drawers that sat across from his bed. He had placed Lancelot’s badge inside the day after the other man had died.

It stayed in a drawer, buried beneath t-shirts, but Arthur always knew where it was. It almost hummed through the wood of the dresser – Arthur’s eyes moved to the furniture first thing when he woke in the mornings.

A few weeks after the retirement, it felt to Arthur as if an entire lifetime had passed.  
The sun had begun to set as he made his way slowly up Fuller Street, Canyon Park at the top of the lane deserted and silent.

Reaching the park, Arthur smiled at the spectacular beginnings of the sunset – the pollution making the sky glisten with pinks and purples and golds.

He wound his way down the path, stopping when he reached a small bench next to a few large boulders and two cottonwood trees.

Sitting comfortably on the ground at the base of one of the boulders, he pulled two pieces of metal out of his pocket. He twined the badges together with their leather cords, and then he dug a hole in the soft ground next to where he sat. He didn’t look at them overlong, or linger in his digging.

He pushed the loose earth back over the hole and the two badges, and marked the place with a small stone.

Leaning back, he sighed and unsnapped the holster he wore at his waist, pulling Excalibur free.  
Focusing his eyes on the color streaked sky, he raised his legs and rested his hands and their burden on his knees.

_I failed you. I failed you, and you left me._

His father’s gun barked just once, and then was silent.

After a moment, the birds began to sing again, and the sun completed its decent below the horizon.

~end.

**Author's Note:**

> This story took on a mind of its own almost 9 years ago. It has consumed my life and remains probably my favorite of any "fanfic" I've written. It is an AU which I NEVER do; the fact that I did still boggles me. I am posting this version of this chapter first (there's an 'original' version as well) because I did write this part of the story first. I consider it both fanfic and original, as the world I created for this version of King Arthur, Sir Lancelot, and Queen Guinevere is of my own thoughts.
> 
> There is a lot more of this. I wrote it out of order and will try to post it in that order. The writing is bad and gets somewhat better as I went along, I think. I still love it, though.
> 
> I welcome thoughts and would love to know what you like/don't like about it.


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